Nancy A. Collins, page 26
When he finally put aside his guitar, the catfish gal disappeared beneath the river’s muddy surface. A few seconds later a large catfish came flying out of the water as if shot from a sling and landed on the dock beside him. Hop picked up the floundering fish and shook his head.
“I appreciate the thought,” he said loudly. “But this ain’t what I’m lookin’ for.” After he tossed the fish back into the water, flop reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver dollar, which he held up between his thumb and forefinger, so that it caught the sun’s fading rays. “If you want me to keep playin’, you got to feed th’ kitty. And this here is what the kitty eats.”
The catfish gal popped back to the surface, stared at the gleaming coin for a long second, then submerged again. Hop shifted about uneasily as first one minute, then another elapsed without any sign of the catfish gal. Maybe he pushed his luck a little too far too early…
Something heavy and wet struck his chest then dropped to the deck with a metallic sound. Hop picked up the flat, circular piece of slime-encrusted metal at his feet with trembling fingers. He scraped the surface with his thumbnail and was rewarded not by the gleam of silver-but the mellow shine of gold.
He gave out a whoop then looked around to see if anyone might have witnessed his good fortune, but he was alone on the lauding, at least as far as human company was concerned. Talk about falling in a honey pot! And all for the price of a song.
000
As summer wore on, Hop Armstrong became a regular visitor to Steamboat Send, showing up early and staying till late, and always leaving with heavy, if somewhat damp, pockets. On those occasions Sammy Herkimer was fishing off the dock, Hop was forced to wait the old angler out, but for the most part he didn’t have to worry about being found out.
At first Lucinda had been suspicious of his newfound interest in fishing, but since he never came back smelling of perfume or wearing another woman’s shade of lipstick on his collar, she eventually accepted his pastime as genuine. Of course, Lucinda had no way of knowing about the Folgers can full of old gold and silver coins he had stashed out in the garage, or of the bag of gold doorknobs hidden in the woodpile behind the house. Hop didn’t see any need to tell her about his new found wealth, because that would lead to her asking him where he got it from, and then where would he be then?
If he told Lucinda about the catfish gal, every man, woman and child in Flyjar would be lined up on the dock playing everything from a banjo to a Jew’s harp trying to muscle in on his gig. The way Hop saw it, there was no call for him to ruin a good thing before he had to.
Once there weren’t any more goodies coming his way from Lit’l Fishie, as he called her, he planned to take his Folgers can full of antique coins and gunnysack of doorknobs and head off to the big city-say Jackson or Greenville. Hell, he might even go as far as New Orleans-maybe even Biloxi! He didn’t really care where he ended up, just as long as it was some place where the women were prettier and younger than those in Flyjar, and you could buy beer on Sundays. Judging from how Lit’l Fishie was behaving during his more recent serenades, something told him it wouldn’t be long before things dried up on her end, so to speak.
She kept swinging back and forth between acting skittish-disappearing every time a bullfrog croaked-and making kiss-kiss noises with that saddlebag mouth of hers. Hop might not know much, but he sure as hell knew women, and Lit’l Fishie was showing all the signs of a sugar mama running short on cash.
As he set out for Steamboat Bend that day, Hop decided it was going to be his last serenade for the catfish gal-and his final day as a citizen of Flyjar. Now that he’d found his fortune, it was time for him to strike out into the world and collect his fame.
000
Hop scanned the sky, frowning at the approaching clouds. It had rained off and on since sunrise, and there were puddles all along the rutted cow path that was the only road that lead to the derelict landing at Steamboat Bend. As much as he disliked tramping through the mud, going out on foul-weather days meant he didn’t have to worry about anyone snooping around.
Tightening his grip on his guitar strap, flop hurried down the levee embankment and onto the deserted dock’s wooden surface. He sat down on the end of the pier, as he always did, dangling his legs over the open water, and began to play “See My Grave Is Kept Clean”.
Normally Lit’l Fishie broke surface about fifty yards away the moment he started to play then moved in until she was staring up at him like a snake-tranced bird. Hop knew that look all too well. He saw it all the time in the eyes of the women whenever he played at the juke joints. He knew that if he said the word, Lit’l Fishie would roll in cornmeal and gladly throw herself in a red-hot frying pan.
He finished with the Blind Lemon and started into Leadbelly, but the catfish gal had yet to put in an appearance. Hop frowned. Maybe she couldn’t hear him. He didn’t really know where she lived, exactly but he was under the impression she didn’t stray that far from the Bend. He changed from Leadbelly to Son House, on the off hand chance that she didn’t care for Cotton Fields. When Lit’l Fishie still didn’t show herself, Hop’s frown deepened even further. It was time to pullout the stops. He began to play one of her favorites: Up Jumped the Devil.
There was a bubbling sound directly below where he was sitting. Hop smiled knowingly at the shape lurking just below the murky water lapping against the pylon. Robert Johnson worked like a charm on women-whether they were two-legged or had gills.
“Why you so shy all of a sudden, darlin’?” he called out. “Why don’t you show me that sweet face of yours?”
The bubbles at the end of the pier grew more intense, as if the water was boiling. Hop scowled and leaned forward, staring down between his dangling feet at the muddy water below.
“Lit’l Fishie-is that you?”
There was less than a heartbeat between the moment the thing with bumpy skin and gaping mouth filled with jagged teeth leapt from the water and when its powerful jaws snapped closed on Hop’s legs. He was only able to scream just the once-a high, almost womanly shriek-before he was yanked, guitar and all, into the river.
The last thing Hop saw, before the silty waters of the Mississippi closed over him, was the catfish gal watching him drown, a sorrowful expression in her bruised eyes.
000
When Hop Armstrong went out fishing and never came back, most folks in Flyjar were of the opinion he’d found himself a new girlfriend and left Lucinda for greener pastures. A smaller group thought the handsome ne’er do well had gotten drunk and fallen through the dilapidated dock into the river below. In any case, no one really gave a good god damn, and after a couple of weeks there were other things to talk about down at the barber shop.
About three months after Hop disappeared, Sammy Herkimer snagged his line on something underneath the pier at Steamboat Bend. At first he thought he was just caught it on some waterlogged reeds. But when he reeled his line back in, he found Hop’s git-box hanging off the other end.
The guitar that had charmed so many ladies out of their drawers and their life’s savings was now dripping slime; it’s neck splintered and body badly chewed up. Sammy shook his head as he freed the mangled instrument. He really wasn’t surprised by what he’d found. In a way, he blamed himself for what happened to poor Hop. After all, when he’d told him about the catfish gals, he’d forgot to mention they weren’t the only critters that made Steamboat Bend their home.
One thing about them gator boys: they sure are jealous.
BIG EASY
“Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! See Big Easy the Gator Boy! He swims and dives like no man alive! See him devour a fish with one snap of his mighty jaws! He hisses! He growls! He crawls on his belly like a rep-tile! Is he man or is he beast? You make the call! See Big Easy, the Amazing Gator Boy, for the astonishing low-low-low price of one dollar! Four quarters! Ten dimes! One hundred pennies! A Marvel of the Ages! The Lost Wonder of the World! Don’t miss a once-in-a lifetime chance to feast your eyes on the One-and-Only Gator Boy! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!”
The Colonel paused in his spiel to take a breath and mop his dripping brow. The Cotton King Carnival in Memphis was one of their big moneymakers, but as he grew older, the heat and humidity seemed to grow more and more oppressive with each passing year.
He glanced over his shoulder at the canvas stretched behind the bally platform. There wasn’t even enough of a breeze to make the belly dancer’s banner shimmy. The Colonel fished a flask from his seersucker suit and knocked back a quick slug. Five Roses wouldn’t help with the heat, but it certainly tamed the twitch in his hands.
Most of the acts in the ten-in-one were as authentic as his claim to the title of Colonel. Fire-eaters, pain-proof men, snake-charming belly dancers, even the midgets and the six-legged cow were nothing nowadays. Hell, most of the yokels trawling the midway had as many tattoos as ol’ Picture Pete. Easy was the only reason they were still able to land bookings like this one while their competitors had long since bottomed out. Even though most of the marks, and even fellow showmen, thought Easy was a gaffe, there was no denying that the Gator Boy was boffo. Real or not, you just didn’t see acts like Big Easy everyday.
The Colonel glanced down from his elevated perch at the ticket booth at a pair of suckers staring slack-jawed at the canvas banners arranged along the length of the tent. They were dressed in matching Harley Davidson tank tops and sunburned pinker than the cotton candy the girl chewed like a sugared cud.
“The Amazin’ Gator Boy?” the man read aloud, not without difficulty. He wore a more worldly expression on his pockmarked face, along with a gimme cap on his head that sported the name `Jimbo’. “I bet its just some weirdo with bad skin, like that Human Crocodile I seen at the State Fair in Nashville.”
“My good sir!” The Colonel replied indignantly, slapping his bamboo cane against the banner so hard it sounded a lion tamer’s whip. “I’ll have you know that Big Easy is not some unfortunate afflicted with the “heartbreak of psoriasis”, as Madison Avenue has so politely phrased it! No, the Gator Boy is unlike any human oddity to ever grace the midway-even during the golden age of the great P.T. Barnum! He is the sole survivor of an ancient race of beast-men! Captured and brought to civilization at great danger and expense for your edification and enlightenment!”
The couple exchanged glances and after a moment’s hesitation, Jimbo shoved his hand into his pocket and brought out two crumpled dollars.
“I still say its just some feller with bad skin—but what the hell, I’ll take a peek, anyways.”
000
The interior of the ten-in-one had a floor of straw and sawdust, with the individual acts presented on raised platforms separated from one another by canvas walls. There were a couple of acrobatic dwarves who called themselves The Tumble Bugs, a tattooed man named Picture Pete who also doubled as a blockhead and fire-eater, a bearded fat lady whose stage name was Hairy Etta, and a handful of similar novelty acts.
The Gator Boy, however, occupied an area in the back of the tent usually reserved for the blow-off. Befitting his star status, Big Easy’s performance space was three times that of the others, and there was even a set of wooden bleachers for the audience. The seats were arranged before a large platform with what looked like an aboveground pool fashioned of metal panels with glass panels the size of picture windows set into them. Wooden ramps on the far side of the tank lead to a wide-bodied fiberglass slide, and to one side of the tank was a workman’s ladder, atop which rested a Styrofoam cooler. As the audience took their seats, the Colonel stepped out from behind the curtains at the back of the stage.
“Now, ladies and gentlemen, we have reached the part of the show for which you have all waited most patiently! But before we begin, allow me to explain to you how such an enigma of the ages happened to fall into my humble hands! Thirty years ago, a Cajun fisherman trawling the bayous of the Mississippi Delta caught something in one of his nets. It was heavier than anything he’s ever snared before, and fought like a demon as he struggled to pull it into his boat. At first the fisherman thought he had caught a huge catfish, or a giant gar, both of which have been known to grow to hundreds of pounds. But, imagine his shock and horror when he finally wrestled his catch aboard his tiny boat-only to discover it was no fish-but what looked to be a child! Yet, this was no drowned little boy! No-it was very much alive-and far from human! It had scaly skin, sharp teeth, webbed hands and feet, and eyes that glowed red in the dim light! The frightened fisherman realized that what he had unwittingly captured was a Gator Boy-one of the legendary creatures that have haunted the swamps and bayous of the Mississippi since before Atlantis was lost to the waves!”
“Big Easy is the last vestige of a mighty race that walked the Earth when the dinosaurs roamed free and wild and Mankind was nothing more than an insignificant, shrew-like creature, cowering in their awesome shadow! These shadowy lizard-men were both gods and demons to the ancient Caddo tribes who built the mysterious burial mounds that line the waterways that feed into the Mississippi Delta, some say in imitation of the nest-cities of the Gator Men, hidden deep with a haunted lost bayou!”
Jimbo, seated closest to the tank, blew a raspberry then snickered. “Laugh if you like,” The Colonel warned. “But once you have seen the Gator Boy-it is a sight you will not soon forget!” With a dramatic flourish of his cane, the Colonel turned and gestured to the heavy velvet curtains behind him, his voice booming forth like an Old Testament patriarch’s. “Ladiezzzz and Gentlemennnn-Behold! The One! The Only! Big Easy-The Amazing Gator Boy!”
The curtains parted and out stepped a large, square-shouldered figure dressed in a hooded silk dressing robe, like a boxer entering the ring. The Colonel stepped towards the very edge of the platform, his demeanor archly serious.
“If there is anyone in this audience who suffers from a nervous condition, heart ailments, or is in the family way, the management of Red Lion Midway Amusement strongly suggests that they vacate the premises now, as they refuse responsibility for whatever breakdowns, seizures or birth defects that might occur as a result of viewing the Gator Boy in his natural state!”
That was Easy’s cue to slip out of the robe while simultaneously pushing back its hood, revealing his face to the audience. The crowd gasped, as they always did.
The Gator Boy was not just bald, but genuinely hairless. No eyelashes, no eyebrows-not even nose hairs. His skin was thick and covered with heavy scales the color of fresh mud. He raised his arms and spread his fingers, displaying the thick webbing between the phalanges, then made a slow, shuffling turn, so the marks could see the knobby crest that started at the back of his head and ran down the length of his spine, disappearing into his black swim trunks. When he was once again facing the crowd, Easy flashed them a smile, displaying jagged, razor-sharp fangs.
A woman near the back of the tent voiced a small, sharp cry of genuine horror. Easy ignored it. Cries of shock and revulsion were as much a part of his daily life as birdsong. The Colonel jumped to fill the uncomfortable silence that always followed Easy’s unveiling, filling it with his showman’s ballyhoo.
“The fisherman who caught the Gator Boy did not know what to do with his find. He was both uncertain of keeping it, yet fearful of setting it loose. So he brought his strange find to a nearby carnival-and as fortune would have it, I was the one he bargained with! The price was dear-but well worth the investment, as you can well see!”
Following the second cue, Easy trudged up the inclined ramp to the top of the slide, pausing at the top to allow the gaping audience as good a look as their one-dollar ticket allowed. Then, with surprising speed, given the painful, arthritic movements it had taken to climb the slide, he threw himself belly-first on the slide’s downward slope, tucking his arms tight against his side, and slid with a resounding splash into the water below, sending a huge wave over the lip of the tank, soaking the paying customers closest to the tank.
Upon making contact with the water, Easy went into his aquatic routine, performing backward somersaults and corkscrew backstrokes, all while completely submerged. The audience held its collective breath as they leaned forward to watch him through the glass walls of the tank. Despite his grotesque appearance and ungainly manner on land, there was a balletic grace to the Gator Boy’s underwater movements.
The Colonel moved to the ladder propped against the tank and began to climb the rungs while addressing the audience. “When the Gator Boy first came into my possession, he walked on all fours. It took years of careful training and immense patience on my part to teach him to stand erect. Even now, his gait is still awkward, like that of a child just learning to walk. He eats nothing but raw flesh-preferably fish, although he has been known to consume frogs, snakes and the occasional turtle-as you will witness for yourself!”
The Colonel opened the lid on the Styrofoam cooler and withdrew a ten-pound bass from a bed of ice cubes. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he tossed the dripping fish into the tank. Easy shot straight up and caught the bass in a webbed hand before it could strike the water. There was a collective gasp, followed by applause, which quickly turned to squeals of terror as Easy grasped the lip of the tank and pulled himself upright so that he was clearly visible to the paying customers.
Brandishing the fish like an oversized cigar, he quickly snapped off its head with his bared teeth then he swallowed it with one neat snap of his jaws. The Colonel glanced down at the crowd and was rewarded by the sight of Jimbo’s sunburned face turning pale. The fish gag was what made the rubes come back, time and again, dragging along their sisters and their brothers and their cousins by the dozens.
Before he could launch into the final patter, The Colonel felt an invisible hand reach into his chest and squeeze his heart like a ripe tomato and he toppled headlong into the Gator Boy’ tank. The audience, thinking it was part of the act, started to laugh and clap their hands, until the Gator Boy exploded to the surface, clutching the spluttering, ashen-faced Colonel in his scaly arms.
